


Where There Once Was Darkness There is Now You.

by waltermitty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Bucky Barnes Deserves Every Good Thing, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Torture, Shapeshifter, The author knows nothing about witchcraft, Werewolf, Witches!, sorry - Freeform, witches familiars, wolf shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltermitty/pseuds/waltermitty
Summary: I call this one: fuck a slow burn, clint and buck deserve love at first sight.or, clint and bucky are a witch and a witches familiar, respectively, and this is the beautiful chaos that ensues.





	Where There Once Was Darkness There is Now You.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with the full intention of making it a slow burn, but I got carried away. Yes there will b a sequel! Who knows. Maybe a whole series. 
> 
> Regardless, Bucky deserves to be happy and I decided that it's my world and he's going to be happy. Please enjoy.

The first time it happened, it took Bucky by surprise. He didn’t even know what it was, if he was being honest.

He’d been sitting on Clint’s couch, waiting for him to come home, sopping wet, having crawled through the propped open window and into the dark apartment. It had been eight months since he broke free from Hydra, months on the run.

The Asset knew that Steve had an apartment in Brooklyn, a nice little two bedroom place. They'd thought about going there- but Steve was so Steve. He’d give him that big sad look, all eyes, and frowns and gentle _oh Buck’s_ and they didn’t think he could handle it.

He didn’t even feel like Bucky, or James, or The Asset. He felt- allowed himself to feel- empty and cold and tired of running.

The Asset had demanded they run surveillance on Clint for several weeks- he was a member of the Avengers, and Steve trusted him. The man barely slept, was always wrapped in bandages and crutches. He was kind, paid the entire buildings rent for a year. He was often on the fire escape, chatting it up with the kid upstairs- Kate was her name if he recalled correctly.

So here he was, dripping water all over the shag carpet in Clint’s apartment, cradling his metal arm, bent at the waist to stare at the weird candles and books lining the bookcase when it happened.

He felt a pinch in his back, right at the edge of his spine, a flash of light and then he finds himself on all fours- with four giant paws instead of hands and feet. He lets out a surprised gasp that comes out as a yelp and falls backward, right onto his giant fluffy ass.

“ _What the fuck_?” He finds himself saying- hears it come out as an indignant yip.

He pads over towards the bathroom, squeezes through the doorway and finds himself face to face with a very large white wolf staring back at him. The wolf is massive, almost his height, with his same piercing blue eyes.

He forces a smile- as James insisted they knew how to do- which felt foreign to him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled, and he found the wolf’s lips curling upwards in what looked like some sort of lippy grimace, but sure enough, it passes as a smile.

His left leg is grey, shimmery tint all the way down to his paw. There's a large patch of blood-red fur tufting on his shoulder. The Asset believes it to be a side effect of the metal arm. He was still soaking wet, which he felt was ridiculous, but he figured give himself a good shake and it might help. It did, but he also knocked over what he assumed was Clint’s toothbrush and numerous unopened hair products.

He backs out of the bathroom, tail tucked between his legs so as not to knock anything else over.

Bucky wanders back into the living room, weaves through abandoned pizza boxes and empty beer bottles. They nose into the fridge, The Asset shouting at them to find food. James is humming- tells him to find something sweet. There’s nothing in there- he moves through the kitchen towards the pantry, and all he finds are half empty boxes of something called Cocoa Pebbles and Cap’n Crunch. The Cap’n Crunch smells the best, they decide, James going into overdrive when he catches wind of the cinnamon.

It's a base memory--something from before the war. The smell takes them to James in Brooklyn- sitting on a cracked wooden floor with Steve, the sun dropping honey through their windows.

He gingerly wraps his jaw around the box and promptly dumps it onto the floor, sprawls on his belly and scarfs it down. After the floor cereal has been devoured, Bucky shoves his nose into the box, crunching happily through the rest of the cinnamon covered treats. He feels his tail wagging- his brain a loop of _yum yum yum happy happy safe_ , and it's _new_ and _good,_ he thinks- the Asset and James are quiet, content with his choice.

He’s so invested in his dinner that he doesn’t hear the door unlock, nor does he notice Clint come into the kitchen to find a wolf sprawled across the tile making sad little snuffing noises into an empty cereal box. When he does notice Clint, however, rather than smelling fear on the other man he smells calm. It’s radiating off of him in waves as if he’s expelling it for Bucky’s benefit.

“Hey, pal- ya likin the Cap’n Crunch?” Clint says this loud and slow like he can’t hear his own voice.

There’s a smile on his face though, lopsided and beautiful, Bucky thinks. He’s got a handful of groceries, two big brown bags cradled against his chest.

 _“Yes.”_ Bucky thinks and hears himself growl gently.

“Well good bud, I’m sorry there wasn’t more food here for ya. I know you’ve been following me lately, I was trying to get some food for ya, well for us- before you came back but I guess I was kinda late.” Clint pauses, sets his groceries down and then sits with his back up against the cool wood of the island, gives Bucky his space, but is close enough for Bucky to touch if he wants. “Sorry I’m talking so loud Buck, forgot my aids here when I left.” He motions to his ears, fingers bandaged and shaky as he touches them gentle. Bucky shifts his weight on the tile, crawls towards Clint a little bit.

He’s cold and Clint is safe, he thinks. James tells him to trust him, The Asset tells him to bite his hand clean off. Clint turns his hand out towards him, lays it flat on the tile palm up, and Bucky shoves his chin into his hand, lets him scratch underneath his chin.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m not freaking out over the giant wolf in my kitchen,” Clint says, voice softer, angled towards Bucky as he scratches his chin.

Bucky just flicks his ears back and forth, shoves deeper into Clint's touch.

“The thing is bud, I’m a witch.” Bucky’s ears flop forward as he opens one eye, tilts his head in question.

“Yeah. Witches have familiars, animal counterparts that help them channel their magic. You- my friend, are a shapeshifter. It was most likely activated by the serum Hydra gave you.” Bucky chuffs in tired understanding, wiggles closer to Clint and throws his head in his lap, shoves against his thigh.

“So-” Clint continues, rubbing behind Bucky’s ears, “you’re my familiar, I think.” He rubs his eyes, slides down further onto the floor.

“I’m gonna just close my eyes for a bit bud, just rest okay.” Bucky chuffs again and flops further onto Clint, closing his eyes for a nap, James and The Asset closing their eyes as well.

When Bucky opens his eyes he's lying sprawled across the couch, metal arm shoved into the couch cushions, hair falling all over his face in tangles. He was in his clothes from the night before, black t-shirt tucked into tac pants and black boots. To _blend- a ghost_ The Asset reminds him.

“Hey sleepy head” Clint greets him from the kitchen, purple sweatpants tugged low on his hips, hair sticking up in 50 different directions. His midsection was wrapped in a bandage, which looked concerningly stained in some places. He had his aids in and was holding a coffee pot and two mugs.

“Hey. Thank you, for last night.” Bucky’s voice comes out raspy and cracked, words foreign on his tongue.

Clint shrugs, spilling the coffee he’s currently pouring for them all over his bare feet. He squeals, but keeps steady and puts the coffee pot down before dropping to the floor, moaning, and cursing.

“You ok pal?” James asks, Brooklyn drawl shoving out his mouth. pushes his upper body up and over the top of the couch, peers down at Clint.

“Yeah man I’m fine-” Clint hauls himself off the floor and grabs their mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” Bucky just stares at him. _How do I like my coffee?_ The Asset is screaming at him to run- James is saying he liked it black.

“James used to drink it black. I guess I like it that way too.” Bucky isn’t sure if it’s appropriate to refer to oneself as a separated beings, but he is as such. Three parts, Bucky, James, The Asset.

“Ah, that’s disgusting. I have to have mine with cream and sugar otherwise I’ll yarf. You’re brave, to drink coffee plain.” Clint ambles over to the couch, sits down and hands Bucky his mug.

“Thank you.” Bucky gingerly sips his coffee and tries not to gag as the bitter liquid touches his tongue.

James had it wrong, this shit is horrible.

“So.. James was wrong? Want some milk and sugar?” Clint’s shaggy eyebrow raises behind the cup, hides a grin.

Bucky drools the mouthful of coffee back into the cup, unable to even swallow it. He gives Clint his most pathetic look, tilts his head to the side.

“Jesus Christ- you’re disgusting,” Clint says this with the utmost fondness, pushes off the couch and takes his cup, pads over to the fridge and pours some milk for him. He rummages around in the pantry, knocks over 4 boxes of cereal, and finally spoons some sugar into his cup, and ambles back into the living room.

“What time is it?

’ “Four o'clock. You turned up last night around 11- knocked out with me in the kitchen, I ended up waking up at 6 am and dragged you over to the couch. You shifted back sometime before then. I figured I should let you sleep- and you did.” Clint shifts back into the cushion props his coffee on his chest. Bucky can’t remember the last time he was safe enough to sleep; let alone sleep for 18 hours.

“Oh.”

“Mm.” Clint sips more of his coffee, shoves his feet in between the cushions.

“So you’re a witch huh?”

“Yeah. I’m 200 years old.” Bucky promptly spits out his coffee, watches Clint’s very serious expression melt off his face as he laughs, doubles over as Bucky frantically searches for a napkin.

“You’re 200 years old? Holy Christ” He gasps, finds his breath again.

“No. I’m only 95. I’m on the young side.” Clint pauses to rummage around on the floor, scrambles back up with a ripped bandana in his hands.

He tosses it to Bucky, who cleans the coffee off of his shirt and the table in front of him. Bucky just eyes him- swallows his mouthful.

“So we’re the same age huh? Or close to it, I guess.” Bucky shoves a hand through his hair, feels it catch in the tangles. He winces, the strands catching painfully.

“Hey, want me to brush your hair out? I can explain the whole witch n familiar thing in more depth if you want.” Clint’s leaning towards the edge of the couch, practically falling off of it.

Bucky just nods once, gets to pulling his hand free out of his hair. Clint hops off of the couch and skids off into the bedroom Bucky supposes, he hadn’t gotten that far in his explorations last night. He settles back into the couch, the scratchy fabric a comfort against his back.

He knows that Clint knows Steve, wonders if he’d say anything to the other man about his whereabouts.

He hopes not.

Clint comes scrambling back into the room, soft-bristle hairbrush in hand. He looks soft- Bucky watches him pick his way through shirts and pizza boxes, tongue poked out against his lips in concentration. He plops down next to Bucky, careful not to jostle his coffee, gives him his space.

“Do you wanna sit sideways or sit on the floor with your back pressed against the couch?” Clint’s fiddling with his in-ears, adjusting them back and forth, wiggling them as he waits for Bucky to answer.

“Floor is good.” Bucky slips off of the cushion, shoves aside the numerous crap on the floor and sits against the couch, in between Clint’s spread legs.

"Alright pal imma touch your hair now" Clint warns, warm palm coming up to gently press against Bucky's skull- gathering strands of his thick hair and gently pulling them through his fingers. Bucky groans, _breaking protocols,_ he's reminded, as Clint brushed out his hair ever so meticulously.

"So. Witches. There are two types, Blood Witches and Spirit Witches." Clint speaks in a low timbre, the sound of his voice level and enveloping, like jazz, Bucky thinks. "I'm a blood witch. Blood witches are immortal- can live until they pass their magic to another. I was given my magic when I was a boy, around 7. I ran away with the circus-" At this Clint pauses, a laugh escaping his lips. It isn't a good laugh- it's sad, as if he is forcing it out of his chest. "One of the acrobats- Ruth, gave me her magic. She told me I was pure of heart and to use it well. Her familiar was a spirit witch, which is rare, usually spirit and blood don't mix, but those two were something special. Zel. He was a tiger. A shapeshifter- like you pal." Clint pauses again, brushes towards the top of Bucky's head, then reaches underneath and begins to stroke the tangled hairs beneath the surface.

"How'd he become a shapeshifter?" Bucky speaks, works some light in there, given the circumstances. 

"He was a spirit witch, so he'd learned how to control animal spirits rather than plants, or nature, or humans." Clint peeks around to look at Bucky, quirks an eyebrow. "This too weird for one night? Or should I go on?"

"Go ahead. Please." The Asset tells Bucky to add the please. it's formal. He complies. James begs him to thrown in a "darlin." he doesn't dare.

"Yeah so he learned the ways of shape-shifting, used it to connect to animals and others familiars. He taught me how to find my own- to use our connection. That's why I didn't yannow- freak out when I saw you eating Cap'n Crunch on the floor." Bucky nods, understanding.

"Will it happen again?"

"Yeah, you're going to learn to control it with time. Like I said-shit most likely came from Hydra. they're notorious for using magic in their serums, in the cyro and mind wipes. I'm surprised they didn't try to make you shift- use it for missions."

Bucky pauses- the Asset searching through the files in his memories, until he's presented with something familiar.

"December 20th- 1989. The Asset was placed in Siberia. Naked. Left in the cold all night- triggers in the arm sending shocks every 15 minutes. Mission objectives are still unclear. Asset was recovered 36 hours later. Wiped and back into Cyro."

Bucky speaks flat and measured- lets the Asset soak out, pour out of his mouth and nose, drip onto the floor and puddle there.

Clint pauses, Bucky can hear him swallow. His fingers still, tucked in his hair, knotting it and releasing it.

"They must've tried to trigger the change. I'm sorry." Clint speaks as of a man who knows sorrow. He speaks in a way that oozes understanding without competing.

He isn't scared by the Asset. Bucky sucks him back in- locks him in his box with James. _He_ wants to speak to Clint.

"How did you know I was following you?"

Clint smiles, lets out a genuine chuckle.

"Like I said- blood witch. you're my familiar, it's different from the spirit bond. Spirit Witches have to create their familiar- have to bring it to life with a bit of their own soul. Blood Witches are connected by magic- a specific familiar for a specific witch. Nothing is by accident" Clint speaks as if he's never been asked anything before. He shares like Bucky will get up and run away before the story is finished, laughing as he goes.

"Huh. So can you like- read my mind or something?"

"No- Eventually the bond will become strong enough to sustain that sort of communication, but seeing as we are still pretty new to one another, your brain is safe." Bucky nods, crawls out of the cage of Clints legs.

He turns around on the floor so he can see him face to face.

"How do I shift? Do I just think about doing it?” Bucky peers into Clint’s eyes, gets a little lost in the azul, a little lost in the flecks of green dotting his irises.

“Yeah- you sort of just breathe deep and think about the shift. It’ll be difficult at first and probably won't actually happen when you want it too, especially since you haven't ever done it before."

Bucky feels himself nod, lets his hair tumble around down into his eyes. He crosses his legs, fidgets for a moment, then leans his cheek to press it against Clint’s thigh. It feels nice, he reasons, lets the Asset scream his head off as he tilts into the other man. Clint eyes him for a moment, cautious, and then leans forward to grab the remote.

“Wanna watch TV?” His voice is soft, a whisper almost.

“Yeah.”

Clint shifts his thigh ever so gently as Bucky rubs his cheek against the soft fabric, the tingly feeling pooling at the base of his spine again.

“Clint- I think it’s happening again” He manages to grit out before the tingles turn into that god awful pinch, and there he is, the white wolf.

Clint just pats the couch space next to him in invitation, and Bucky climbs onto the space next to him, shoving his head into Clint's waiting hands, warm and safe. Bucky dozes off to the sound of the TV crackling softly and Clint's soft laughs.

He wakes up to the sun streaming through the window, dancing along his fur in warm rivulets. He stretches and yawns, slides off the couch and pads his way into the kitchen to find Clint. The other man is sitting at the kitchen table, brown and missing a leg, it's tilting up against the wall just barely holding itself up. Clint's mug is balanced between his forearm and a late of bacon and eggs, and Bucky plods over to shove his head right next to the bacon, silently pleading for a bite.

“Mornin pal” Clint groans out, eyes squeezed shut as he sips his coffee. Bucky chuffs in return, noses at Clint for a bite.

Clint just hands him a piece of bacon and scratches behind his ears before leaning back into his chair, the three legs slipping back off the ground. He tips back until he hits the wall, and lets the chair rest there. Bucky watches with passive interest, still warm from the sun and happily eating his bacon. It’s peaceful and warm for all of about 30 seconds, until Clint leans too hard back in his chair and it clatters to the ground, dumping him onto the tile with a crash. The noise breaks Bucky out of his doze, the wolf jackknifing into the air like a hissing cat. Clint at least laughs from where he's sprawled out on the floor, like a deranged starfish.

“God Buck I’m sorry-oh my fucking god- “ Clint wheezes from the floor, laughing his ass off at Bucky’s raised hackles and poofed out fur. Bucky just growls menacingly- or what he hopes is menacing, but Clint just keeps laughing, until Bucky stomps over and flops right onto his chest, gently wrapping his jaws around his throat. “Alright- Jesus Buck you’re strong- get offa me I can’t breathe.” Bucky rolls his eyes and slides off of Clint’s torso, sprawls out next to him in the sun.

They lie there for hours, or minutes, the syrupy slide of time pushing them into a honey-colored haze. Bucky eventually feels the pinch in his spine, the now somewhat familiar tingle spreading through his limbs as he shifts back to human form. Clint is passed out next to him still, Bucky crawling over to the couch to grab his shirt, thankful that whatever dignity he had left was saved by the presence of his briefs. Bucky steps over the man laying on the floor, all golden and sinewy, let's his eyes rake over his abs and eye his bulge, to James’s utter delight. He doesn't stare for too long, snaps his eyes to the coffee pot and beelines to it, pours the both of them another cup and adds an unholy amount of cream and sugar. Nudging Clint with his toe, Bucky finds himself right back in the crook of his arm, this time cross-legged and facing the window. Clint cracks one blue eyeball open and squints up at Bucky, scruffy smile on his lips.

“Did you make us coffee?”

“Yeah, god, figured it was the least I could do after getting hair everywhere and sleeping for two days straight.”

These are the most words Bucky has spoken in one sentence since he left Hydra. These are the words that James, the Asset and Bucky came up with. He feels his lips slide up in what he hopes resembles a smile, feeling content with their work.

Clint laughs, pats him warm on the thigh, big palm tickling the fine hairs covering his strong legs. Sips the coffee in a half sit-up position, rolls his eyes back and thumps his head on the floor happily as Bucky sips his own drink, hums contentedly under his breath.

“So,” Clint begins, pushing up to his feet and moving far away from Bucky to check the little green numbers on the oven. “It is, 11:30am on a Sunday, and we are awake and the world is our oyster. What would you like to do.”

Bucky just stares at him. James yawns and stretches, tells Bucky if there was anything he wanted to _do_ it was Clint. The Asset says they should kill a few Nazis, break for lunch, and then disappear to Mexico.

“What do I want to do?” Bucky repeats, soft and more than a little confused. He hasn't done anything but missions and cyro and wipes since he can remember. He _wants_ to do something, he thinks, he just doesn't know what.

“Yeah. We could go to the park, see a movie, grocery shop for real this time, get you some new clothes. Whatever you're up for pal.” Clint picks up some discarded boxes and piles them into a big white bag, scoops some old banana peels in as well.

Bucky stands for a moment, wracks his brain.

“I want to cut my hair.”

Clint’s goofy demeanour is quickly replaced by an almost comically large frown as his head snaps up, tilts to the side. “I shouldn’t have said we can do whatever you want. It’s very nice hair, why do you have to cut it.”

Bucky smiles again, he feels it this time.

“You like my hair. That is cute, Clint.”

“Shut up Barnes, I do not, I just don’t wanna have to be the one to cut it cause god knows you aren’t going to let a perfect stranger near your head with scissors.”

James preens at how well Clint knows them and The Asset is pleased that Clint understands basic self defense. Bucky feels like he's going to pass out from this warm fuzzy feeling in his chest, all because Clint likes his hair and he’s actively turning pink right before Bucky’s very eyes.

“Nope. Pout about it all you want but we’re doing it.”

“You’re getting a bowl cut.”

Clint makes himself laugh, which Bucky decides is becoming his new favorite sound. He likes the sound of Clint’s laugh, wants to bottle it up and tuck it into his boots.

“What the fuck is a bowl cut.” Clint barks out another laugh, wheezes his way towards the bedroom, Bucky trailing behind him this time.

The room is small, a deep blue, the paint cracking in some places. The giant bed in the middle of the room is unmade, like it hasn’t seen a body in too long, and there’s a small table next to it, a lamp and a shiny silver computer resting on it. Clint grabs the laptop and flops back onto the bed, laying it on his stomach as he searches up whatever the hell a bowl cut is. Bucky gingerly lies down next to him, close enough to touch, and then they do touch, Clint’s hands brushing his as he hands him the laptop. Bucky snorts at the first picture, full-blown laughs at the second, and by the third and fourth he and Clint have dissolved into madness, Bucky’s head shoved into the meat of Clint’s shoulder, Clint’s arm wrapped around him as they tussle and laugh, tears rolling down their cheeks. Finally, Bucky’s tears dry and they sit up, Clint running a warm palm through Bucky’s hair, letting him lean into his touch.

“ _This okay? Me running my hands through your hair?_ ” Clint’s earnest voice breaks into Bucky’s head, shaking hands with James and the Asset, a gentle visitor. Bucky nods against his shoulder, allows himself to be held. Not trapped he thinks, closes his eyes, but held. He likes this feeling, he thinks, thinks it in a sentence so maybe Clint can hear it.

Clint chuckles and just pulls him closer ever so gentle, rubs his head and neck. Eventually Bucky shakes him off, grinning at him that it’s haircut time, enjoying the way he rolls his eyes and flops back onto the bed, throwing his arms over his eyes. The movement highlights his abs, which distract Bucky, only momentarily until he remembers Clint can see into his head.

“Here, you can wear these. I don’t know if they’ll fit, might be kinda big but it’s all I’ve got.” Clint long since rolled off the bed, padded off to the closet and pulled out a floral button up shirt and a pair of black shorts that look short, offers them to Bucky.

Bucky feels himself freeze again. He’s never worn shorts like that before. Would that be appropriate? The Asset is pacing, telling him to get his tac gear on and gather his knives _now,_ that he needs to _blend in and asses threats_. James leans back in his chair and smirks, says Clint is here with them, they’re safe and can do whatever they want.

Bucky, who tends to be impartial, leans in the direction of James’ idea, finds it much more fun and easy to do. He’s tired of doing hard things, he thinks. It’s easy time.

“Fine. These look like stripper shorts but whatever.”

Clint just grins dopily at him and slips on a loose gray t-shirt, tugs a pair of black jeans up his legs.

“I bet you’ll look fine. The bathroom is to your left if you want some privacy-”At this he motions to himself- “I showered this morning so- didn’t have to change my underwear.”

“I’ve seen your living room. I don’t know how much I trust that claim.” Bucky raises an eyebrow as he slides out the door and ducks into the bathroom, Clint’s indignant “w _ooow_ ” following him as he goes.

Bucky slips his black t-shirt off, takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. There are no cuts, bruises or fresh marks of any kind dotting his torso, the faded scars from countless tubes and shocks, slices of knives paint him- familiar- map out the horrors of the last decades. His stump is covered in a spiderweb of red and white tendrils, extending into sleek metal. He gives it a quick rotate, lets it whir to life since the first time he’d plucked out each and every one of the Hydra triggers. It clicks and groans, soft and simple machinery he thinks. Rubs the fading red star- decides to paint something else there. Hasn’t decided what yet, but something different. For the first time he can recall, his face has color, the tan skin of his youth making a valiant comeback from the pale white he was so accustomed to. His hair hangs thick and soft looking, long gone sweat-soaked strands plastered to his forehead. He smiles at himself, lips curling back over white teeth, pink gums, tongue bright and alive. Alive. Places his flesh hand over his heart, closes his eyes and listens to the rhythm. It’s been years, he realizes, since he’s heard his own heartbeat, was half sure it couldn’t do it anymore. “ _Good effort pal_ ” he thinks to his heart, feels it thump back a _thank you_ in reply. The sparse hairs on his chest are thicker, dark patches all over, like someone started shaving him and forgot about halfway through. It’s a haphazard trail down his abs, across the plane of his chest, disappears into his briefs and comes out with a vigor onto his thighs, thick and healthy. Bucky silently thanks God that Hydra never shaved his legs, at least one familiar straw to grasp. Finally, on goes the shirt, the floral print of white and blue flowers against a black background making him feel like a tourist, but in a way that makes him smile again. The shirt is loose enough, resting at the cut of his hips, flowy and free. He buttons it up all the way, which isn’t very much at all he realises, seeing as one patch of his weedwacker chest hair pokes out the top. The shorts are next, comfortable resting at his mid thigh. Bucky takes one more look at himself, does an about face, and strides off to find Clint.

Clint’s waiting for him in the living room, all boxes and trash cleared, two of the big white bags waiting patiently by the door. He’s fiddling with his hearing aids, big purple machines that wrap around his ears and attach neatly to the fixtures on the side of his head. Bucky finds a small comfort that Clint is also part machine. Bucky’s pretty sure his hearing aids never killed anyone’s father and mother before, but then again who knows.

“Lookin good Buck. Whatdya say we skip the haircut and go to Bermuda? You’re certainly dressed for it.”

“These are your clothes, dipshit.”

“Yeah Yeah. You sure you’re okay to go to the store?” Bucky nods, hair falling into his eyes.

“Kay. Lemme get you some shoes huh?” As Clint lumbers off to find some suitable footwear, Bucky ambles over to the bookshelves he had been studying before he’d been so rudely interrupted several nights before.

There’s several books on dogs, a couple of encyclopedias, and what looks to be a first edition of Moby Dick sitting on the shelf, some dog tags sitting in a little ceramic plate, a very ugly looking vase, and a couple of candles that apparently smell like “Christmas Miracles and Autumn Evenings,” and a little framed picture of a circus. Bucky straightens up and walks back over to the couch, flops down and tries to recall the last time he was at a store.

It had been 2 days after he’d defected from Hydra, the triggers in his arm repeatedly sending shocks and beeps and malfunctions intermittent with jerks and twitches of his whole arm and fingers had been enough to drive him to find the nearest convenience store and look for a tiny little screwdriver and swiss army knife, the sort of tourist shit people pick up. He finds himself dripping wet in a CVS at 12am, clutching a keychain that says “Big Apple” in ugly white print over a smiling apple and a swiss army knife. The cashier doesn’t even bat an eye, rings him up and then graciously asks for his CVS rewards number. He just stares at her, charcoal lined eyes smudged into his cheeks, silently reaches for the mango flavoured chapstick and sets it down next to his knife and keychain. She rings him up then, accepts the crumpled Russian bills from his gloved hand, along with a piece of lint that was stuck to his tac pants with the sort of tired calm Bucky himself would like to have someday. He promptly stalks out of the store with his purchases, finds a secluded rooftop and debugs the arm, picks the triggers out one by one. It takes forever and he’s freezing and his hair is dried in clumps. He calmly unwraps the mango chapstick and swipes it over his cracked lips, humming softly at the artificial sweet.

Clint padding back into this peripheral vision shakes him from the memory, a pair of blue rubber shoes in his hands.

“What are those.” Bucky eyes them suspiciously, not liking the way that Clint’s holding back a smile.

“Crocs. They’re comfortable. We’re just going to the CVS man, it ain’t the red carpet.” Bucky just grunts goodnaturedly and slides them on, textures greeting his bare feet.

He decides he doesn’t hate it as they file down the stairs, the shoes squeaking loudly on the concrete steps. The sound is off-putting and it must show on his face, because Clint wraps an arm around his shoulders as they walk, fingers tangling in the smaller man’s hair in a way that Bucky thinks he’s going to miss once it’s cut. They walk the block down to the CVS in near silence, Bucky enjoying the comfort of Clint’s bandaged fingers brushing his neck and the smells and sights of the city. It’s quiet outside, as if for Bucky’s benefit, as if it’s barely waking up. The few people they encounter on the street barely giving them a second glance, The Asset growing ever sated as they make their way through the automatic doors, Clint guiding them towards the baskets stacked near some lipstick as the cool air conditioning hits their faces.

“Okay so- we need scissors, and I figured while we’re here we can get ya a toothbrush and some basic necessities.”

“Necessities.” Bucky repeats back, hears his voice flat and measured once again.

Clint nods, gives him some room to breathe as he starts down an aisle, leaning down ever so slightly to grab something from the top shelf. Bucky didn’t realize how tall he was in the apartment, the whole place seeming to fit Clint like a glove. He’s not too much taller than Bucky, the both of them made up of lean muscle and broad shoulders, yet taking up so little space. They’re both assassins, The Asset reminds Bucky, they’re trained to be invisible. The thought makes Bucky snort a little as he watches Clint stub his toe on a stand of hats and then trip over his own feet, almost face planting into the makeup display. He turns around to grin at Bucky like a dope, bright blonde hair sticking ever direction, a pair of sunglasses Bucky hadn’t seen him grab squeezed over his face, week's worth of stubble lining the pale skin of his jaw, strong and half covered in the bandaid extending up from his neck. Bucky trots down the aisle after him, grabs a giant floppy hat and shoves it over his head, smiles up at Clint and then laughs at the way the giant pink wraparound sunglasses look and then they’re snickering at the hair dyes, Bucky whispering that Clint should try the shade “Cherry Crush.”

Bucky spends a considerable amount of time sniffing the different deodorants and soaps and hair products, because he can choose _whatever he wants_ , asking Clint what he thinks, and then sniffs Clint, who smells like _joy_ and _coffee_ and _green apples_. Clint belly laughs when Bucky picks out the giant pink bottle labeled “Smooth Rose Hips” because, he says, _when did roses get hips_ and then Bucky’s giggling again, and the Asset chimes in that there's no data on _rose hips_ and James is laughing and the Asset cracks a smile and Bucky feels it again, that big fuzzy feeling in his chest.

They finally make it to the checkout counter, arms and a basket full of Bucky’s shampoos and Cap’n Crunch, and a bottle of green tea, several toothbrushes and bubblegum flavoured toothpaste, and 16 boxes of smiley face macaroni along with the scissors for his hair, and a plastic bowl. The woman at the checkout is the exact same woman from the fateful night of the swiss army knife and the big apple, and now that Bucky’s brain has been working for several months on it’s own, he now realizes that he handed her lint and Russian currency in a CVS in New York and disappeared without a word. He and Clint sheepishly take off their glasses and hats respectively, sharing a quick look before shoving them into the pile of ever amassing junk in front of them. If the woman recognizes him she doesn’t show it, just gives them a big smile and sweetly asks if they have a CVS rewards account, or phone number she could look up.

Bucky tries to stay emotionless as she waits for the phone number or card, but all he can think about is one day having his _own_ CVS rewards.

Clint fumbles around in pockets of his jeans before yanking out a well worn plastic CVS card, slapping it into her hand with a smile and a “yes ma’am.” She rings them up and packs their things into bags, pats Clint’s bandaged up hand and tells them to have an excellent day. Bucky tries a smile out for her, and she just smiles right back.

They make it back to the apartment just in time for the sunshine to suddenly disappear as clouds roll in, rain pouring down like it’s got a flood to cause. Bucky drags one of the kitchen chairs away from the table and sets it up in front of the bathroom mirror, slips his shirt off and grabs a towel to throw over his shoulders while Clint fills up a squirt bottle full of water and gets them both their coffees. He comes in with the scissors clamped between his teeth, squirt bottle tucked underneath his armpit, coffee in both hands. Bucky’s terrified he’s going to spill, but miraculously, he doesn't, and sets everything down very gently.

“Hey Clint?”

“Yes?”

Bucky sips his coffee very slowly before he proceeds, decides to let James say some of he isn’t sure how to.

“Do you like the fellas?” Clint pauses from where he’s sectioning off Bucky’s hair, hand tangled in the strands.

“Do I like the fellas?” He repeats, raises an eyebrow.

“That is what I asked.” Bucky replies, sips his coffee and stares right back at Clint’s dumb reflection.

“Well Jesus, Buck, what gave it away, the rainbow mug you’re currently drinking out of or the fucking picture Jeff Goldblum lounging sexily in a state of sweaty undress taped to my fridge.” Clint just snaps back, laughing a little as he says Bucky’s name.

“Oh.” Bucky nods sagely, kinda wants to make Clint squirm.

“I know you’re queer too you idiot.” Clint says after Bucky pointedly makes a disgusted sort of face and makes his eyes all wide, sipping his coffee again. “I’m friends with Steve.”

Bucky, for the first time in 40 years, blushes.

Clint, for the first time that day, spits out his coffee, chokes, and then dramatically falls and flounders all over the bathroom, limbs splaying every which way.

After he’s recovered somewhat, he gets the bowl out from earlier and waves it triumphantly in the mirror. Bucky gasps, pretends to be scandalized.

“You wouldn’t dare.” “Oh I dare.” Bucky smiles at Clint’s reflection for a solid minute before he stops, catches himself.

“But hey, before I do cut your hair into a ferocious bowl cut, did ya want it that short?”

Bucky nods, motions to Clints mess of hair. “Wanted it a little longer than yours.”

“Ah- okay. Lucky for you, I cut my own hair so I can do yours just fine.” Clint’s is short, but longer on the top than the sides, springing up in the back, a wild cowlick standing straight into the air amongst the other blonde strands.

Clint spritzes Bucky’s hair with the water, gets it nice and damp and then places the bowl on his head and begins to cut. About halfway through Bucky has another question about the whole witch familiar thing, and he _wants_ to ask but isn’t sure if it’s something he _can_ ask.

“Hey Clint?” he ventures, voice coming out smaller than he expected.

“Yes your highness?” Clint returns, popping out from behind the bowl, strands of brown hair covering him, blue eyes sparkling.

“The whole witch familiar thing. Do uh. Do those sorts of folks get married? Or are they just super good friends.” Bucky’s bright red again, and he’s not thinking about marriage at all, he’s just thinking that Clint makes him feel safe in the deep-rooted way he hasn’t felt probably ever, and to chalk it up to magic is just fine with him, but he kinda wants to suck on Clint’s neck for an hour and he’s not sure what friends do these days but he’s sure that ain’t it.

“Well it depends. There are some folks who have the sort of connection that takes a long time to cement, so they tend to be close friends, and then there’s the matter of sexuality. Spirit witches tend to create their familiars to be what they need. So there’s the soulmate sort of relationships, and then there’s the helper types, and then you have the companion types. Spirit magic is very flexible.”

Bucky just nods in understanding, Clint ducking back down to snip at the last few strands on the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Blood witches are different. I’m a blood witch, and our familiars-” Clint pauses again, looks at Bucky with serious blue eyes, darker than usual. “Blood witches and their familiars are typically immortal soulmates. They’re created specifically for one another, to be one another’s best friend, lover, what have you. Those types of bonds typically form very quickly once the pair meets,” Clint continues, hesitant. “That’s why we’re so comfortable with one another, I mean we’re both two trauma riddled assassins pal. This sort of shit doesn't happen-” He motions again to them in the mirror- “it doesn’t happen on a normal timeline.”

Bucky just stares at him. The last thing on his mind after defecting from Hydra all those months ago was love, or a partner, or a soulmate. He’d thought his chances of that had died with James Barnes.

“Ah.” Bucky nods. “Hey. It’s okay if you don’t want that though. I know plenty of folks who have a perfectly fulfilling friendship with their familiars. No one, especially not me, is going to make you do anything you don’t want, ever, I promise.” The words are coming out of Clint like an oil spill, earnest and tinted with that same pain Bucky hears in his own voice, the understanding of decisions and freedom and just how much it means.

“Clint. It isn’t that I don’t want that. It’s that I thought I couldn’t have it.”

“Well pal, it’s here for you when you’re ready. Now let’s look at this beautiful new you, shall we?”

Bucky just smiles, soft and nods, thinks a silent, _thank you_ , to Clint, who just nods and taps two fingers over his heart. The bowl cut is, the worst thing Bucky has ever seen. Clint scream laughs so hard he falls out the doorway, howling on the floor as Bucky himself brushes the hair off his neck and whips it back and forth, laughing as hard as he can, gripping the tile of the sink so he doesn’t tip over.

“God- fuck oh shit oh my god Buck- please can I get a picture of that?”

“Yes. You may.” Bucky whips his head around so that the hair swings together, making him laugh even harder as Clint laughs himself back onto the floor, holding up a couple fingers as he clutches his chest.

Clint finally yanks the phone out of his pocket, snaps a picture from the floor looking up at Bucky, the hair hanging like a curtain around his head. He clambers to his feet and wraps a warm arm around Bucky, mashing them together facing the mirror, and takes a picture of them laughing, takes one of them doing their best to look serious. He manages to get a couple solid pictures before they begin laughing again, Bucky grabbing his towel off the floor and wrapping it around his shoulders, plopping back into the chair. Clint cuts his hair pretty quickly after that, a very classic style sitting atop his head when he's done. It's nothing fancy, short enough to stay out of his eyes and still long enough to curl around his ears and the nape of his neck. Clint runs a palm through it, rubs the strands beneath his fingers and hums, pats Bucky on the shoulder and then sweeps up the hair on the floor.

“Clint.”

“Yeah Buck?”

“Can we get me a phone? So I could have my own CVS rewards?”

Clint looks pleased from where he’s scooping up Bucky’s hair off the floor, gives him a small smile and nods.

“We can order it online. The Apple store might be too much for ya just yet.” Clint says, dumping the handfuls of hair into the trash bag, sweeps the towel off of Bucky’s shoulders, folding it and putting it by the door.

“Thank you Clint.” Bucky says, drags the chair back into the living room, shoves it back with its friends at the kitchen table.

Clint emerges shortly after with a well worn sweatshirt on, soft and stained. He’s holding another one in his hand, blue, deeper blue than his eyes. He offers it to Bucky, laptop in his other hand. Bucky smiles at him, which he thinks he’s getting good at, and slips the sweatshirt over his head. It’s a delight to find that its big on him, a little tight in the shoulders but hangs off his frame otherwise. He likes the way that it feels against his skin, sort of like a warm embrace. James offers memories of warm embraces for him to recall, the sweater making its way into their memory files as well. He flops down next to Clint on the couch, who has the laptop opened up to a page that is full of phones. He scrolls through all of the different options, and Bucky, who has never seen so many different types of screens and displays and colors in his life, almost has an aneurysm when Clint says he can pick _whatever he wants_. He decides on a phone like Clint’s, something called an I-Phone 6s Plus. Bucky thinks that is a lot of words to describe one thing but he likes it, gets it in the color red so he’ll always be able to find it. Clint offers to buy him a case for it, which causes them to talk about what a case actually is, and Bucky decides he would in fact like one. Clint buys him a Hawkeye themed case when he isn’t looking, but Bucky likes the way Clint’s cheeks tint pink and his teeth show when he smiles so he doesn’t protest. The website says that the phone will be delivered by Tuesday, and both Clint and Bucky take several moments to marvel at modern technology and how fast they can get stuff now. Clint promises to take Bucky shopping for some new clothes, tells him about a thrift store a few blocks over that he’d like, says maybe they can go tomorrow.

The T.V is squawking in the background, some lady realtor saying that she could find this couple the house of a lifetime.

Bucky doubts it, Clint thinks she can.

They sit for a while, side by side, Clint’s knee occasionally bumping into Bucky’s thigh.

On the first commercial break Bucky yawns, slips down the side of the couch and just so happens to fall into the crook of Clint’s slung back arm. When the realtor is showing the couple their dream house, Clint’s arm slips off the back of the couch and lands on Bucky, hand coming to rest on his hip. By the time the couple has made their decision and is ready to renovate, Bucky has both legs slung over Clints, head resting on his shoulder, tucked up tight and safe.

“Hey Clint?” Bucky says, half watching the blonde woman scream as her beloved kitchen was revealed.

“Yes Bucky?” Clint replies, blue eyes flickering from the husband rubbing his temples in a too tight shirt on the T.V. to the top of Bucky’s head.

“If I stay here, which I’d like too, do I have to sleep on your shitty couch?”

“Yes.”

“What.” Bucky twists in Clints arms, rolls over onto his back, head resting in Clint’s lap as he stares up at him. “What.” Bucky repeats, watching Clint to make sure he’s teasing him.

Clint just stares down at him, raises an eyebrow.

“What, you think just cause you spent eight months homeless and on the run from a secret Nazi organization that controlled your brain for decades you get to take the bed? Selfish.”

Bucky barks out a laugh at Clint’s measured tone, all fake nonchalance, his grin breaking the second he sees Bucky smile.

“You’re really gonna talk like that to me, The Winter Soldier, James Beaucanaon Barnes, famed and feared sniper of the one-oh-seventh? Captain America's right hand man? POW?”

Bucky barely gets it all out of his mouth before he breaks character at the way Clint’s lips are pursed into a thin line as his face turns bright red from holding in a laugh.

“Jesus Christ Buck, of course you can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch huh?” Clint finally gets out, laughs subsiding.

“Why don’t we both take the bed.” Bucky ventures, feels safe with Clint, feels it seeping out of his pores.

Feels something instinctual purr inside him, wants to wrap his entire body around Clint and never let go. He does not do that, he does however pat Clint’s abs with his palm.

“If you’re comfortable with that then that is what we shall do.” Clint slowly says, measured, as if he’s choosing his words very carefully.

“Nothing will ever erase what Hydra did to me Clint, but I spent eight months alone, learning how to get rid of the brain fog and programming and triggers so that I’d be able to look my best friend in the eyes again, so that I could buy a phone, so that I could have a life, friends. I’m free now pal, and goddammit, I’d like to enjoy what’s left of my life.” Bucky pauses, swallows. “I get to choose things now. I get to choose to follow my gut, the gut that’s telling me you’re safe.”

“Well the weeks of surveillance should help. Plus give it a few more hours and you’ll be able to read my thoughts.” Clint sounds relieved

. “Hey Clint?” Bucky whispers, after a considerable pause.

“Yes?” Clint whispers back.

“M’ not planning on leaving you. I feel the connection- the magic.” Clint sighs, long and deep, runs a hand through Bucky’s hair.

“I feel it too pal. Been waiting a long time for you to show up.”

They watch the rest of their program in easy silence, the storm outside giving way to a cloudless night, a gentle breeze rattling against the window as they laid together on the couch, warm and soft. Eventually Clint whines that his leg is falling asleep, and Bucky just rolls of him and onto the floor, lies there face down until Clint toes at him. They wander into the kitchen, the little green lights blinking at them that it’s 10:00pm. Clint rummages around in the cabinets and produces two bowls, pours them each some Cap’n Crunch, sets the bowl down in front of Bucky at the table and plunks a spoon in it for him. They eat slowly and silently, tiredness seeping out of the both of them. Bucky drags himself behind Clint into bed, leaves the warm embrace on and curls up, face mashed into Clint’s chest, hears a soft “ _goodnight Bucky_ ” press into his conscious, warm and comforting. He purrs, vibrates a little and then passes out. He wakes up to a mouthful of shoulder, one eye cracking open to find that he has his jaws clamped down over Clint’s collar bone like he’s gnawing on a t-bone steak. Clint’s just lying there, still asleep, and Bucky tucks closer to him, soft fur tickling his chin. Bucky shoves his head underneath Clints palm, the hand coming to life to gently scratch the top of his head, the tips of his ears. He rumbles contentedly, stretches out his hindquarters, feet kicking off the bed as he yawns.

“Buck you’re crushing me.” Clint muffles from beneath him, shoves at his ribcage and stomach.

_“Sorry”_

“No, you’re not- you big furry dope. Want some breakfast?”

_“Yes, eggs and bacon? Please?”_

“Mmm. Fine, but you have to switch back to eat. I’m not feeding you again.” Clint says, shoves a pillow over his face, but there's no bite to his words, no real heat.

 _“Whatever you say Chef._ ”

Bucky in fact has to pee, so he sits for a moment, contemplates how he’s supposed to do this. He’d never actually controlled a switch yet. Was he supposed to click his heels three times? Wish on a star? Find a grasshopper and a blue fairy and ask them for help?

Clint interrupts his thought process by rolling over and grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, tugs him down to lie next to him.

“This isn’t a Disney movie pal, just think about being human and wham bam. You’re back.”

So Bucky does, feels the pinch in his spine, and finds himself back in his body, wrapped up in Clint’s arms and Clint’s big blue sweatshirt and he decides he likes it a lot. The need to pee soon overwhelmed his desire to stare at every inch of Clint’s face for the better part of eternity.

Clint makes eggs like he’d promised, all barefoot and bedheaded, the golden light of the morning shining through and dancing off his alabaster skin. He talks and sings and dances around while he cooks, unaware that Bucky had dragged himself out of bed after immediately crawling back in after his pee. Bucky just watches him, peeks inside his head as he cooks and sways around, humming some obscure song. Clint’s brain is like the rest of him, sunny and genuine and warm, full of pictures of Bucky’s smile and the way his hair fell into his eyes. There’s little bits and pieces of him as Hawkeye, there’s a box labeled “Don’t Open” shoved in the corner, and it smells like _apples_ and _cinnamon_ and _coffee_.

Bucky loves this magic thing.

He shifts back into wolf form and curls up in a sunbeam, yawns and finds himself dozing off to the sound of Clint’s singing. Then, as if summoned to wake him up, there's a knock at the door, loud and insistent.

Clint mutters about decency and privacy as he walks to the door, opens it to reveal the Star Spangled Man With A Plan standing in the doorway, guns ablaze.

“Where is he, Clint.” Steve growls, well more like yells, stomping into the apartment.

Bucky, James, and The Asset calmly debate the pros and cons of jumping out the window and running for the hills.

He screams into Clint’s head, does his best to project all sorts of alarm sounds, sirens, mental pictures of ambulances.

“ _Calm down Buck, I got this. Just lie there and enjoy your sunbeam_.” Clint says, well, thinks, turns the stove off and goes after Steve, who has stomped his way towards the bedroom.

“Clint those are his fucking tac pants on the couch, I’m not a fucking idiot. Where is he.” Steve is so irritated or sad or maybe a bit of both now that he’s bright pink, blonde hair combed down, scruffy beard covering his jaw, masking those perfect teeth.

Bucky wants to hug him. He also wants to run away.

“He’s safe, Steve. 'M not gonna betray his trust, he came here for a reason.” Clint says, palms up, soft and easy.

This only makes Steve more riled up.

“As if he wouldn’t be safe with Tony, Pepper and I? Who the hell do you think you are Barton?” Steve steps towards Clint, fists balled, face red

. What Bucky does next is purely by instinct. He tells Clint he doesn’t recall doing it, but he does. Clint knows this.

“Steve. Calm down.” Clint’s voice is still soft, that easy gentle tone carrying a lot of weight.

“No- I’m not gonna calm down Barton-” Steve steps towards Clint, and from where Bucky is laying in his sunbeam, he doesn’t like it.

Rationally, Bucky knows Steve is hurting. He knows that Steve misses him, he knows that he just wants what is best for him. He knows that Steve would never hurt Clint. Bucky knows this.

Instead of staying put, he very calmly stands from his sunbeam and hurtles himself over the couch, lands in a crouch between Clint and Steve. Even in a crouch, shoulders tucked down, teeth bared in warning, his back rises to Clint’s midsection. He folds himself a little, a half circle of snarling wolf, tells Steve to _fuck right off_.

Steve just stares at him, and takes a step backwards.

“So. Found your familiar huh?” Steve finally says, quiet and calm.

His gaze is fixed on Bucky’s left leg, the shimmery grey and patch of red a dead giveaway it seems.

“Somethin like that. Sorta like he found me.” Clint replies, shoves a hand down to scratch behind Bucky’s ears, who’s finally stopped snarling and is now thumping his tail on the ground like an oversized dog.

“It’s him- isn’t it.” Steve asks, folds his arms across that impossibly large chest and sighs.

Clint pauses.

Bucky sends him a thumbs up.

James is crying at the sight of Steve and The Asset is picking at his fingernails.

Bucky misses his friend.

“Yea Steve. It’s him. Whatever Hydra did must’ve activated the blood magic- like flipping a switch.” Steve just stares at him for a moment, looks up at Clint and then back down to Bucky.

“Is he always like that?” Steve asks, little half smile on his lips. “Cause he’s a lot better like this. Can’t say anything stupid,”

Clint laughs, nudges Bucky with his knee.

“Hey Winter Soldier, feared assassin and ghost story of the 20th century- ya gonna take that shit?”

Bucky just rolls his eyes and shifts, the pinch lessening each time he does. It’s becoming more fluid, he finds, to float between the two halves.

He’s standing there, tucked into Clint’s blue sweatshirt, not the blue like Clint’s eyes but the blue like night, hairy legs sticking out of the shorts he forgot to take off last night, hair wild from sleep, staring into the eyes of his best friend.

“Hiya Steve.” Is what he manages to choke out- stumbles forward into those big strong arms like he’s falling, starts sobbing the minute he hits his chest.

Steve just wails, holds him close, and they hold each other for a while, just sobbing into one another's arms. It’s been far too long since he’d been held by Steven Grant Rogers, he decided, counted to 55 and then pulled back, snot-nosed and teary-eyed. Steve’s face is still red, cheeks streaked with hot tears. He looks old- Bucky thinks with an air of sorrow. A whole life lived without him- alone.

“I wasn’t alone Buck. I met Tony, and Pepper, and Clint and Nat. They’re family.” Steve reads the look on his face easily, years of unsaid words and swallowed feelings giving them an all-access pass to the other’s brain.

They’d had to- back in the war, two fellas as close as Steve and Bucky.

“They make ya happy Stevie?” Bucky says, voice hoarse.

“Yeah Buck.” Steve’s smiling now, that patented Steve Rogers Little Shit grin.

“You got your hands full with Clint pal. Big mistake.” Bucky just laughs, shows Steve his smile.

“You’re telling me huh?” Bucky says, falls back into Clint’s chest as he does, allows himself to be caged into his arms.

“God you’re such a shit Barnes.” Steve laughs, nods towards Clint.

“I- 'm sorry for barging into your home Clint. You’re a good friend.” Clint waves a hand dismissively, already past it, Bucky knows.

“Don’t worry about it man. If my brainwashed ex-assassin best friend lover boy had defected from a Nazi stronghold eight months ago without coming to see me I’d have been pissed too.” Steve just swallows, rubs the back of his neck. “It’s fine Steve. Really.”

“Yeah yeah. At least come by for dinner soon huh Buck? Want ya to meet Pep and Tony.” Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly looks like that sickly young man Bucky loved so long ago.

“I’d love to Steve. Why don’t you stay for breakfast? I bet Clint can make more eggs.”

Clint just groans and drags Bucky off into the kitchen with him, pulling him underneath his armpits as Bucky laughs his ass off the whole way, Steve trailing behind them. 

They eat, and talk, and it isn’t as bad as Bucky had thought it’d be. He hears all about Steve’s family, hears about how many new things there are these days. Steve leaves not too long after they’ve finished, bellies full, lumbers off with a wave and the promise of seeing one another soon. 

Bucky just shifts back into wolf form, flops back down in his sunbeam, and relaxes, listens to the sound of the radio, the sound of Clint crooning into a wooden spoon. 

_ This,  _ he thinks _ , this is what they mean, this is what peace and the promise of a good life feels like.   _

 

 


End file.
